


Ko'mekh

by BaronessEmma



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Foreshadowing, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-son relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 08:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3563066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronessEmma/pseuds/BaronessEmma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mthama. Ko-mekh. Winona. Màthair. Ma'am. However they say it, to the crew of the Enterprise, the word "Mother" always has an important meaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ko'mekh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Spock comes home from school all bruised and bleeding, he must find a new and special way to tell Lady Amanda that it is really his heart that is injured.

**Ko-mekh**

"It is illogical, Mother."

"Some of the best things in life are illogical, my son."

"But I have done nothing today that warrants a reward of this type."

"Eat the _ameelah_ , Spock, and do not contend."

"Why should I not? You have received a report of my misconduct today, and yet you insist on treating me as though I have done something noble or praiseworthy."

Lady Amanda did not sigh in frustration. She was too well schooled in the habits Vulcan males (and her son's habits in particular) to feel anything more than mild annoyance at this juncture. She picked up the spoon that her son had pushed away, and firmly handed it back to him, arguing for his compliance in the only effective manner. With logic.

"Spock, the ingredients of this dish contain potassium - a substance that will aid your bruises and help your sinews to knit. Now stop second-guessing me and eat your dessert!"

Reluctantly, he complied. When he was done, he cleared the table of the detritus from his late meal, instinctively taking the responsibility upon himself to clean up.

Amanda did not protest, but went into the sitting area, to wait for her son. He would say what had to say, in his own way, in his own time.

In a few minutes, he silently appeared at her side.

" _Ko-mekh_ , may I be permitted an indulgence?"

"Of course, Spock- _kam."_

Her son climbed into her lap, arranging himself in a kneeling position on her thighs, and he faced her with a strange expression deep within his eyes. He raised his hand, and with slow deliberate movements, spread his fingers and placed them carefully on her face. His hands were small, and his fingertips made only minimal contact with the proper places, but Amanda could feel the mind meld beginning, nonetheless.

"You were not my _than-tha_ , Mother," he said, lowering his eyes, "But I wished for you to be." Then he closed his eyes completely, and pushed his fingertips as close as they would go to her contact points.

And there he was.

Or, more accurately, there _they_ were. Both of them. In her mind. . .

Her heart swelled with joy at this gesture from him. To meld with a human was no light thing, even if she was his mother. ~ _It is long since I had thee inside me, Spock, my son~_ Amanda thought to him.

But he was young, and inexperienced at melding. His mind was yet unfocused, struggling to maintain the link. _~I. . . do not know. . . I think. . . meaning?~_ His thoughts were thready, moving with the beats of his heart, but he had effectively held his emotions in check, at least. All save one. . .

 _~Be not afraid -_ hayal _, Spock-_ kam _\- I have experienced far more intrusive melds. Thee art proceeding quite well.~_

She sensed his mental effort as he collected himself, and he managed to ask, ~ _What didst thou mean "It is long since thou wert inside me?"~_ The voice of his mind sounded far away, but it was clear now, and strong.

 _~But naturally, my son, thee abided inside me for many months~_ Amanda placed a deliberate bit of amusement into the meld, and sent her son a mental image of herself, pregnant, and looking at her own form in a mirror. ~ _It was a time I cherished,_ sa-fu~

He considered for a moment. ~ _And dost thou cherish_ _ **this**_ _bond,~_ He mentally indicated the meld _~in the same manner?~_

She fought the urge to nod - she _would not_ displace his fingers - and thought across the bond one simple word instead. ~ _Yes~_

 _~I understand~_ He sent her and old memory image of his infant hand tightly gripping her finger.

 _~Yes, my son~_ She responded. ~ _Exactly~_

His mind trailed off, uncertain how to proceed.

 _~Have you ought else to show me?~_ She gently prodded him. ~ _Have you some purpose in mind for this_ ta'an _you have given me?~_

All of a sudden his thoughts rushed out of him, spilling and tripping over themselves, an endless river of thoughts, mingled with emotions so thick and confused that the bile rose in Amanda's mouth. How was he _this_ conflicted. . . ? But she pushed her reactions down, and calmed him with a thought. ~Hayal _, Spock-_ kam. Hayal~

With a great effort, he stemmed the tide to one single thought, a single line of fire in the midst of an eruption.

 _~There is something. . . one thing. What happened today. . . I could not speak of it. Not to thee. But I cannot stop thinking of it. . . I had to find some way. . . to tell thee. It will be painful. But I cannot have thee not know. Yet I would not have thee. . ._ kafusik _. . . of me~_

She sent him am image of her hands outstretched. Welcoming. Forgiving.

 _~When one gives up the showing of emotion, one must also peacefully accept shame when it comes, and learn to separate the shameful act from the person who has performed it. I shall never be ashamed_ _ **of**_ _thee, Spock-_ kam _\- even if thee gives me reason to be~_

His thoughts stumbled just a little. ~ _I fear I may have done so~_

_~Fear not, and show me~_

He steadied himself against her mind, and began.

First, there was dread.

_~"I assume you have prepared new insults for today. . ."~_

Amanda saw through her son's eyes the three cruel youths who made it their daily chore to torment him.

_~"He has human eyes. They look sad."~_

His dread had quickly changed to stubborn determination.

_~I will not submit to you. You are less Vulcan than I am. You are illogical~_

His thoughts for a moment overrode his deep emotion.

_~"Perhaps an emotional response requires physical stimuli."~_

Then there came a swift rush of his hate.

_~"He's a traitor, you know. Your father."~_

Then there was a flood of nausea.

_~"That human whore."~_

Then came white blinding indignation, tortuous rage, and an overwhelming sense of. . . justice?

 _~Yes,_ Ko-mekh _,~_ he thought to her directly, ~ _I was compelled to defend thee. To uphold your_ dor _. I would again. . . and again and again and. . . ~_

She cut in. _~What happened next,_ sa-fu _?~_

There came a heady twisted pleasure, a perverted yet intoxicating joy as the bones of his fist connected with the other boy's flesh. All memory of the effective yet civilized defense postures he had been taught deserted him. He was young, strong, primal, fighting for justice and the woman who had taught him all he knew of love. . .

And then. . . . . . horror. His opponent was no longer conscious, and had dark green blood leaking from his nose and split lip. A gash was opened along his jawline and a hideous bruise blossomed on his forehead. Was he dead? The other boys seemed to think so, as teachers lifted Spock bodily off of the one who had dared insult the Lady Amanda. Another teacher lifted the bloodied boy - who turned his head and groaned. The boy was not dead.

_~But he could have been. . . ~_

Spock did not feel relief.

 _~Ah,_ sa-fu _, you see what violence brings?~_ Amanda thought to him, both mortified and proud of this young Vulcan manling who loved her so ~ _Keep the feelings of justice, my son, but learn that nothing good will ever come from mindless rage.~_

Then came the shame, thick and hot like lava. Scorching. Searing. ~ _I could not control myself~_

 _~Control will come~_ came her answer.

He sent her feelings of a deeper, more personal horror ~ _I still feel the anger~_

_~It is good that you do~_

There was confusion ~ _Anger is good?~_

_~Yes. It is right to feel anger at evil~_

_~But it is not logical~_

_~Yet it is necessary~_

~Ko-mekh _, I do not understand~_

_~You will~_

He felt shame again, and a searching sort of desperation ~ _I am not human, Mother. I cannot be human~_

_~This is true~_

_~Nor am I truly Vulcan~_

_~This is also true~_

His thoughts seemed to falter, to pause, to fold in upon themselves. ~ _What shall I do?~_

 _~Thee will endure. Thee will make a future for thyself. And thee will thrive~_ She gave him only her confidence.

He felt her assurance, but his searching continued ~ _How?~_

_~In whatever way that is right. Thou wilt find it, in time~_

_~I love you~_

_~I know you do, my beloved son~_

_~I will go now. . .~_

Gently, slowly, he removed his mind from hers, and dropped his hand from her face. He blinked a few times.

"Fascinating," he whispered.

Amanda inhaled sharply, her humanity quite unable to accept this coolly spoken word next to the intensity of the bond she had just shared with her son.

" _Sa-fu_ ," she said, as calmly as possible, "May I be permitted an indulgence?"

"Of course, _Ko-mekh_."

With gentle determination, Amanda gathered her son into her arms, held him tight and close, and rocked him while the tears he would never cry - could never cry - spilled from _her_ eyes and onto his hair. " _Taluhk sa-kan. . ."_ she murmured. My dear boy.

For a moment Spock tensed. Vulcans did not show affection in this manner. It was illogical. Then he recalled infinite moments of this same behavior during his babyhood, and he relaxed into her caress. It was only Mother's way. It was human. It was meant to be illogical.

She began to sing, quietly humming the only Terran lullaby that Sarek had allowed her to use. It was the only one, he had said, that showed even the slightest modicum of logic.

"Que Sera, Sera,

Whatever will be, will be,

The future's not ours to see,

Que Sera, Sera. . . ."

She continued to sing, feeding him peace and love through the remnants of the meld, and planting a suggestion that he rest.

Feeling immeasurably comforted, but not quite sure exactly how, Spock laid his head on his mother's shoulder, and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

Meaning of Vulcan words -

 **Ameelah -** Vulcan dessert tasting much like fried bananas.

 **Dor** \- Honor

 **Hayal** \- Calm

 **Kafusik** \- Feeling shame or guilt

 **-kam -** Denotes affection (usually mother to child)

 **Ko-mekh -** Mother

 **Sa-fu** \- Son

 **Sa-kan** \- A male child; an immature or inexperienced man, especially a young man

 **Ta'an** \- Gift

 **Taluhk** \- Of high cost or worth; valuable; highly esteemed; cherished; dear; beloved

 **Than-tha** \- One who guides children through their first mind meld on eve of 7th birthday; usually a parent.


	2. Winona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Jim asks his mother The Question. . . no, no, no, not that question, a real question!

**Winona**

"So, mom. . . you gonna ask me what we learned in school today?"

Jim Kirk was not a boy who volunteered information.

"I dunno, Jimmy, do you _want_ to talk about what you learned today?"

Winona was not a woman who pulled her punches.

"I had Advanced Math, Terran History, Betazoid Literature, Computer Engineering Shop, and Sex Ed."

Jim Kirk did _not_ beat around the bush. Even at ten, straight up was the name of the game.

"Well, that sounds. . . informative. Jimmy, was there something you wanted to talk about?"

Winona was _not_ a curious woman. Ten years ago she had had enough of adventuring to last a lifetime.

Or two, in this case.

"Yeah, mom, I wanted to ask you a few things about Sex Ed."

Damn.

"Ok, Jimmy, what did they confuse you about? I hope they didn't talk about Klingons, because that stuff shouldn't be taught to people under eighteen, and sometimes not even then - well, unless you _are_ a Klingon, and in that case I guess it's just normal - and _please_ tell me the teacher is not arranging a field trip?"

Winona rambled when she was nervous.

"Nah, nothing like that mom. Just. . . seems to me that you gotta have two to tango, y'know? How about that?"

The expression on his face was far more angry than anyone would have the right to expect for such a casually asked question.

"Yes. In most cases, yes. So. . . what?"

This was not good.

"Well, let's see, mom, you and dad would have had to have got it on about ten years ago last week - that is if I had the normal nine month gestation period, and I just wondered what you had to say about that."

"Awkward" could not begin to describe the moment.

"Jimmy, you aren't asking me where babies come from, are you?"

"NO!"

He was shouting, really angry now. Well, at least that was normal.

"I was. . . I was TRYING to ask you about. . . about. . . father. . . but I guess you don't CARE!"

He was _not_ a boy used to embarrassment. But the flush on his face was not solely from anger.

"You don't want to know anything about it Jimmy. Believe me."

"Stop calling me Jimmy! I hate it!"

His hair was _just_ like his father's. She always noticed that when he was mad. Maybe that was why she made him mad so often.

"He would have called you that. . . if he had lived."

Sometimes the truth was easy.

"Mom, how did dad die?"

Sometimes the truth stank like hell.

"Wait here."

The data disk was right where she had shoved it ten years ago. Right at the back of the case full of her wedding photos.

The case opened easily, and there the disk was.

Damn.

"I'm gonna go to the transport station early, Jimmy."

"So what?"

He looked like his father when he was sullen.

"So. . . go ahead and listen to this while I'm gone. . . Jim. . . but you'll be sorry if you do."

He took the data disk from her almost reverently. How did he _do_ that? Sometimes it was like George was back again.

"I won't listen to it. . ."

And sometimes Winona didn't miss George at all.

". . . until you leave."

And sometimes she missed him like _hell_.

"Be good, Jim."

"Yeah, right. . ."

* * *

There was a LOT of static. There was a LOT of noise. And a LOT of the data was missing.

But some things came through VERY clearly.

"Honey, I'm sorry, but I won't be able to be there."

"George, I need you."

"I need you to push _now_!"

"It's a boy."

"Tell me about him. . ."

James Tiberius Kirk didn't remember much of the recording after that. Except he _did_.

Ten minutes later saw him behind the wheel of his stepfather's Corvette.

It had _nothing_ to do with revenge.

Sure it didn't.

* * *

Six months later, when she came home, Winona found a note pinned to the kitchen door. The door she used, almost exclusively. The note was real paper, written in her son's unformed and boyish scrawl.

"Winona. I'm _not_ sorry."

Twenty minutes later, after all the screaming, she assumed that her son had meant the car.

She never knew how wrong she was.


	3. Mthama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was never one to judge with her eyes, but it took special insight for Nyota Uhura to realize with what it was she should be judging.

**Mthama**

There were voices in the wind.

They were not human voices, nor non-Terran voices, nor animal voices - they were Wind voices.

The Morning spoke in a long chilly shimmer, glowing and wavering like the first moment of sunrise, and The Afternoon hummed with the short staccato beats of rolling drums, sounding like honey on hot, hot bread. The Wind of the Night tinkled with starlight, whispering like the scent of orchids - except, of course, when it roared and crashed, like a wild cat, with eyes luminous in the moonlight, and muzzle soaked in blood.

Oh, there were so many _sounds_. . .

The whole world - no, the whole UNIVERSE, she thought - could be contained in sound.

Lightly, Nyota drew a stick through a patch of dusty earth in the garden of her parent's country house. The soft "shhhkk-shhhkk" was soothing, and then she clinked two stones together, the sharp "rattttttt" adding good counterpoint. She pulled up two weeds from soft soil, and they gave their usual deep "thunk" of a popping sound as the root broke free. She shook the soil still contained in the nest of rootlets, and it pattered loosely over a stone with a soft "tshhh" that was very like misty rain. In the distance she heard the whining chirp of a cheetah, and quickly she tried to copy the unique sound.

"Meawww. Meawwwkkk," she keened softly, so focused on repeating the noise that she did not notice the tall slender woman appear close behind her.

" _Kidege, hukuwaza kidege_ ," sang the woman, knowing that this would be the only way to catch her daughter's attention.

Slightly startled, Nyota paused a second before singing the reply, " _Malaika, nakupenda Malaika_."

Sayari Uhura knew when her daughter was brooding. Silently, she knelt down, brushing a tuft of dry grass from her youngest girl's sleeve.

"What is this day saying to you, _mpenzi msichana_?" she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

For a child so enthralled with sounds, Nyota was disinclined to answer this question. "It says many things, _mthama_ ," she said, at last meeting her mother's eye, "Mostly it says that I wish to be alone, and if you were not my _Malaika_ , I would ask you to let me be."

Mother's eyes twinkled a bit, but she did not smile. "Ah, _wapenzi_ , the winds never say that, and the stones are social creatures. You must be listening to something else in your mind." _Mthama's_ voice curled softly over the consonants, reminding Nyota of the riverbank where she had taught her how to swim. It made her feel safe, yet impelled to act as she had then. Stubborn. Rebellious. Vaguely fearful. How come mother never let things be?

The loving voice hardened, just the tiniest bit, "What is wrong, Nyota?"

Perhaps. . . mother never let things be because she _always_ knew when something was wrong, even when no one else could tell.

For a second Nyota clenched her mouth shut, as if she would never say a word again, then with a gusty sigh she flipped herself atop the large warm stone in the middle of the garden, crossed her legs, crossed her arms, and gave the general impression of being majestically offended.

"My brothers do not love me," she said, not at all in jest.

 _Mthama_ never laughed when she made statements such a these. Mother always seemed to understand. But Nyota never knew (not until much, much later) how close Sayari came to bursting into peals of laughter at this posture and statement from her daughter.

"You wait until a boy from school asks you to dance with him - then you will see how they do not love you, _kidege_. Have they not been good brothers for many, many years? They will not stop _now_ merely because you are going to school. What has happened?"

Nyota stuck out her jaw, and her eyes turned even more truculent - were that possible. "I do not _wish_ for a boy from school to dance with me - I wish for my brothers not to laugh at me!"

Sayari held back laughter again, and managed to frame her next question with a very serious tone. "You and your brothers are forever laughing - with and at each other - now then, Nyota _wapanzi_ , you will tell me _what is it that has happened_."

She sighed - it was a great concession to tell this, even to her mother. "They were playing with the laser pointers as though they were phasers, and they themselves were starships. I asked to be an officer. They agreed and asked what I knew. I spoke to them in Romulan, and they laughed. Like they did not know its importance!" Nyota pressed her two small fists against her cheeks, looking very much like she wanted to cry.

At last Sayari took her daughter into her arms, "Perhaps they do not, my love. They are boys, your brothers, and many times in this life you will learn that men have much that is different to them in importance than we women do."

"They should not have laughed." Nyota was very sure of this, but at last she did not sound sullen.

" _Hakuna_ , but do you not think that maybe, _maybe_ you were a little proud that you could speak a language they could not?" Sayari looked down at her daughter, gently making her to took her in the eye.

" _Maybe_. . ." Nyota mumbled, "maybe. . . I. . . I don't really know, _mthama_."

Sayari smiled a little, "You should not always think with your head, dearest."

Nyota's forehead wrinkled in complete bewilderment, "But. . . if not with my head. . . then. . .?"

Mrs. Uhura stood, and took her daughters hand, "Ah, little one, you think your brothers do not love you anymore, but you do not remember that they have watched you grow from a little girl whom they bettered in all things, to a very smart young lady whom they do not understand. Think with your heart a little, and then you will know what is what."

"But. . ."

"Hush, young one, and listen to me - _upendo ni kubwa_ \- Always. _Upendo ni kubwa_." The greatest is Love. "Remember that _kidege_ , and you will not go far wrong."

Nyota blushed a little, not that _mthama_ could see it, and suddenly she relaxed and threw her arms around her mother.

"Well, **I** think that _ni kubwa_ _ **mthama**_ _._ My _Malaika_."

Sayari _did_ laugh then, and wondered once more how quickly children grew, yet how slowly they mature.

"Go up to the house now Nyota, and help your sisters with supper."

Nyota nodded, and started to obey, but Sayari held her back a moment.

"Do you remember what I have said?"

"Yes, _mthama_."

"Go then, and do not forget."

Halfway to the house, Nyota allowed herself to admit that _mthama_ was probably right.

But, one day, she promised herself, she _would_ meet someone who appreciated the fact that she could speak Romulan.

* * *

Meaning of Swahili words -

 **Hakuna** \- No

 **Kidege, hukuwaza kidege** \- Little bird, I dream of you little bird.

 **Malaika, nakupenda Malaika** \- Angel, I love you Angel.

 **Mpenzi msichana** \- dear girl

 **Ni kubwa Mthama** \- the Greatest is Mother

 **Upendo ni kubwa** \- the Greatest is Love

 **Wapenzi** \- dear


	4. Màthair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A most unexpected person buys Montgomery Scott his first drink.

**Màthair**

"A' Andorian brandy on t'rocks, barkeep," said the lady.

Montgomery Scott looked up from his flavored soda water with great dismay.

For the moment, the woman ignored the boy's look. "An' a double shot of Yorkshire Special fr' meself, iffin ye please."

Young Monty's eyes widened as the brandy was plunked down in front of him, and his mother sat down across the table from him, holding a double shot of what smelled like very potent scotch.

"Màthair?" asked the sixteen year old, confused and disoriented. Such a thing as this had never happened before. Muireall Scott never - _never_ \- frequented the Black Bitch. Few other residents of Linlithgow had been seen in the local pub so rarely.

She took a large swallow of the. . . was she _really_ drinking whisky? . . . and she pushed the glass of Andorian brandy a bit closer to her son's elbow, "Weel laddie, it be just aboot time to teach ye what thy father woudda taught thee - ye're the age for't now." She quickly grimaced past the second half of her drink, "And with ye goin' off to the Academy in a month 'er two, this'd be the best time for celebration, dunna ye think?"

"A. . . aye. . ." stammered Monty, sliding the soda water off to the side and taking a surreptitious glance at old Osgar the barkeep. The man was leaning on the smooth polished wood of the bar, bemusedly observing him and his mother. Obviously, if Osgar approved, it would be all right. . .

Monty took one cautious sip of the amber liquid in his glass.

Hmmm.

It was strong, but fruitier smelling than the concoction his mother was drinking, and it went down warm, without a sting. He smiled, appreciatively, and leaned forward to cup the glass in his hands, as he had seen the older men do.

"Is thy resairch dun fr' tonight then, Màthair?" he asked. She was the busiest bio-combinatorial chemist in the northern hemisphere - with several high-level organizations, including Starfleet, making demands on her time, physical and mental resources - how could she _possibly_ be taking the night off?

"Nay," she said, gesturing to Osgar for a refill, "It's only just beginning, dear lad. But I was a'thinking - wot with ye laiving us so soon, and thair being so many things in t'universe ye know nought of, I kin spair thee _one_ night - my only son, aye?"

"Aye. . ." said Monty, taking another sip, as the barkeep came over and himself refilled his mother's glass. Monty's eyes widened for a moment - is was unheard of for the master of the pub to leave his place and serve a customer with his own hand. . . but then Monty waved it away - too many odd things were happening tonight anyway.

Màthair took a long sip of her refreshed drink, then leaned forward and tapped the rim of her son's glass with the tip of her finger.

"Rule Two of drinkin', Montgomery - Buy the good stuff. Allus. Replicated alcohol. . . is shite."

Monty choked a little. . . mother _never_ swore. . . well. . . perhaps at her experiments, but never in conversation.

"Is it?" he managed.

"Aye. Complete and utter shite. Remember Rule Two and ye'll allus be sairved the best," she took another swallow of the Yorkshire Special, for emphasis.

Finally, Monty's brain caught up with the rest of him.

"Rule two?" he asked, suspiciously.

"Aye. Immuteable. Trust me lad."

"Ay do Ma, but. . ." he paused, uncertain with the night's oddity.

"But what?"

"Rule _two_. . .?"

Màthair smiled. "Aye. Rule One comes latter."

"Does it now?"

"Aye. It does. Now let's be gettin' on wit it," and she raised her glass.

"Here's to the Black Bitch!" said Monty, loudly, and he drank to a chorus of cheers.

Mrs. Scott drank too, but then said warningly, "Aye, laddie, our auld pub is a thing of beauty, she is. And the picture of yon wee female doggie is indeed black," and here she leaned forward and made very close eye contact with her son, "But, ye be _careful_ who ye says that too, or who ye tells stories of this place, ye hear? Not all know what we mean by't and no one - but _no one_ \- likes themselves a cursing drunk, d'ye hear?"

Monty looked at his mother quite soberly, "Yes, Màthair, I hear. An I unnerstan'."

"That's well then," and she finished her drink, waving to Osgar for more.

As the night wore on, and Muireall Scott knocked back seven or eight more Yorkshire Specials, Monty grew more and more suspicious. How could a woman, whose previous alcohol consumption - that he knew of! - was limited to glass or two of wine, and a passionate fondness for chocolate brandied cherries, how could she take all that? She must have the constitution of a draught horse. . .

Two Andorian brandies later, it didn't much matter anymore. . .

* * *

Old Osgar held in check a most uncharacteristic grin as he served the mother and son. No one in Linlithgow _ever_ ordered the Yorkshire Special - only he and Mrs. Scott knew what was in it, and as for young Monty, well. . . he was acquitting himself well, considering.

Ach, the boy had had Alban Scott for a father - who was to wonder at the boy's tolerance?

* * *

It was a memorable night at the Black Bitch - it was the last night for many a year that a Scott raised a celebratory glass in that honored establishment - and many a regular of the place said that young Monty was his father all over again - lively he was indeed, amusing, expansive, the soul of wit. . . and that his mother was a stout stomached woman whom they were all just as glad not to have to answer to in the morning.

* * *

Monty careened out of the pub. . .very late. . . and VERY loud.

"THERE'S A FELLA DOON THE ROAD THAT I AVOID!

HE'S WAN O'THEM THEY CALL THE UNEMPLOYED!

HE SAYS IT'S ALL BECAUSE OF ME -

HE CANNY GIT A JOB AND I'VE GOT THREE!"

As he sang, made as if to take the driver's side of his mother's hovercar.

"THREE NIGHTS AND A SUNDAY DOUBLE TIME!"

Muireall Scott appeared unfazed by her son's choice of vocal entertainment, but she frustratedly batted him away from the controls of the hovercar.

"Ach. . . let me drive laddie - git ye'reself oot o'there."

"THREE NIGHTS AND A SUNDAY DOUBLE TIME!"

Mongomery Scott's mother crossed her arms, and said authoritatively, "Rule Three is - the sober one drives. Ye'll thank me in t'mornin'."

At that precise moment, Monty did not think so, for he was far too busy with other matters.

"THREE NIGHTS AND A SUNDAY DOUBLE TIME!"

There are rabbits in Linlithgow even yet who have not forgotten the racket young Montgomery made while singing his way home, and there are several bushes that became intimately familiar with the contents of his stomach.

* * *

The sun was bright. Very, very, very bright. Who had made the light so. . . . _prickly_. . . this morning? Monty very wisely decided not to open his eyes.

A very, _very_ loud * _thump*_ sounded next to his bed.

"Ay, laddie, 'tis yer wake-up call," said his mother's voice, unnaturally loud, "Be sittin' yerself up there." She pulled him to a sitting position, and patted his hand, insistently.

Against all his better judgement, Monty opened his eyes. His mother was there, her eyes firm, her expression. . . tutorial.

"Rule One of Drinking," she said, portentously, " _Never_ take _anything_ unless ye kin deal wit the hangover. Do ye understand, lad? Never. Not on any circumstance. And that be the laist of the argument."

He could barely nod, but he understood. Did he ever. . . . . .

She took up the glass of indefinable brown liquid she had set next to his bed and handed it to him.

"Drink it, and thee'll feel better. Worked for thy father, and thee's as close to him in this matter as I ever expected to see a man."

The concoction was horrid beyond description, but after choking it down, the pain in his eyes subsided a little.

"Now go back to sleep, Monty lad," she said, softly laying a hand on his shoulder and guiding him down to the pillows, "Thee'll be as right as rain in a few hours, if it's thy father's blood in ye." She kissed his forehead, and he was asleep in seconds.

* * *

Muireall Scott sat staring at her computer screen, hating this experiment even more. It was one thing to be assigned to Starfleet research, it was quite another to be a _subject_ of Starfleet research. Once more she read through her mandatory report -

"I would like to report that the synthahol experiment can be considered to be a success. It looks and smells like true alcohol, and reacts in the mouth quite similarly. As expected, the intoxicating effects are nullified. A person only half inebriated can consume this preparation without sucumbing further, and a person under the full effects of real alcohol cannot tell the difference between it and the real thing. I myself experienced no ill effects from consuming nearly a whole bottle."

Mrs. Scott paused before typing the next line - six words she instinctively _knew_ would send the Starfleet Biomatter Replication and Development Labratory back to the drawing board for at _least_ a decade, but she shrugged and went for honesty.

"However, it still tastes like shite."

* * *

It would take nearly fifteen years of active duty for him to become a legend, but Montgomery Scott became known, not only as the most brilliant engineer to be seen this side of the Galaxy, but also as one of the hardest drinkers in Starfleet. However, he was one of the few who _never_ shirked duty with a hangover, _never_ worked while inebriated, and never, ever, _ever_ drank replicated alcohol or Andorian brandy.

He was never fond of synthahol, either.


	5. Maht

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genius needs guidance, and Pavel Andreievich Chekov has only one place to turn.

**M** **aht**

He was worried.

How on _earth_ could they expect him to do this? How on earth could _anyone_ understand this? What was any of it supposed to _mean_?

He looked once more at the requirements for graduating General Schooling early. Maths? HA! _That_ was easy. Check. History? Check. Sciences? All of them easier than freezing in January. . . Check. Geography? Check. Languages? Hmmm. . . A bit harder, but he already spoke two. . . well enough. Check. Interplanetary History and Social Studies? Check. Government and Civics? Unnecessary in his mind, but still, he was confident he could make the Advanced Placement scores. Check. Sports? Was chess a sport? Well, no matter, he could swim too. Check. Arts? Well, he could paint a little. . . he had an idea that Arts were not difficult to pass, as long as one presented the end result confidently. Check. Engineering and computer mechanics? Pah! He had been doing more than what would be required for Advanced Placement for _years_. . . Definitely check.

The only thing left was Terran Literature. . .

For Advanced Placement, one had to read and analyze a minimum of three classic Terran poems. _Poems_.

Who in their right mind cared about poetry? Who? And who ever thought it made any sense _at all_?

Well, _poets_ , he supposed, but he wasn't one, and didn't know any, and never had been interested in them. He drew a hand frustratedly through his hair, not caring that he was messing it up.

Now what?

His father wouldn't be any help - "Go to the classics" was his favorite phrase anyway. Even in answer to mundane questions like "What do you want for dinner?" his father would reply "Go to the classics!" and then would re-interest himself in the daily news, expecting whoever had asked the question to figure out the answer themselves.

His father _taught_ Terran Literature in the local secondary school, and his only son didn't know the first thing about poetry. Granted this was because Mr. Chekov was a stern proponent of "leaving your work at the workplace", but that wouldn't help his son now.

Pavel Andreievich sighed, surveying a sampling of the suggested reading. The first was an old American work -

_Give me your hand_

_Make room for me_

_to lead and follow_

_you_

_beyond this rage of poetry._

_Let others have_

_the privacy of_

_touching words_

_and love of loss_

_of love._

_For me_

_Give me your hand._

Now what on earth did that mean? He knew he was no dummy, but it made no _sense_. He decided it might as well have been random words written in stanzas.

Hmph.

Well, there was nothing for it but to try again. He found an ancient English piece that seemed to begin promisingly -

_O, that this too too solid flesh would melt_

_Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!_

_Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd_

_His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!_

_How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,_

_Seem to me all the uses of this world!_

_Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,_

_That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature_

_Possess it merely. That it should come to this!_

Uhrm. THAT was a bit. . . depressing, to say the least, and the Russian translation he was reading did not, he was certain, give him the full realization of the English idiom that he would need if he was to _write_ something about this poem.

He tried once more, this time searching for something written in his native Russian -

_As with a haughty smile she says:_

_"Am I not worth your love like Venus?_

_Mark what I choose to tell you then._

_I may forget the gulf between us_

_And make you the happiest of men_

_Here is my challenge - who will meet it?_

_For sale I offer peerless nights._

_Who will step forward - I repeat it -_

_And pay with life for his delights?"_

Well. . . _that_ at least sounded interesting, but he would have to translate it into Federation Standard to earn the credits, and he was sure he would miss a sense of something if he had to do that.

And then he would _still_ have to _write_ something about it.

He sighed. _Who_ could expect _any_ thirteen year old boy to write about _poetry_? _Any_ poetry?

True, they were in essence asking eighteen year olds to write about it, since that was the age group that the Advanced Placement program had been designed for, but the point was that if he wished to graduate early, and then enter Starfleet Academy with a perfect record, he would have to find a way to understand poetry. However distasteful it might be to him.

Dejected, he turned off his computer, and went downstairs for a snack.

* * *

Ekateirna Yaroslavovna Chekov stood in her kitchen, mincing onions, stirring her soup pot, deftly filleting fish, and baking sweet golden potatoes for dinner. She moved from one dish to the next, lightly humming her favorite song as she worked.

There were some, she mused, that had gladly given this up when replicators had become available for public use, but not in HER kitchen, thank you - no, never. She did not mind the taste of replicated food, and she was glad indeed that the new technology had ended world hunger, but nothing in the world - or the galaxy, if one wanted to take a broader view - could ever replace the scent, taste, look, and outright _feel_ of a home cooked meal.

Besides, she was a housewife, a homemaker, a veritable power to be reckoned with inside her own domain, and if her son made the Honors List (which was the fast track to Starfleet Academy) - and he was bound to, the boy was so smart - she would have little else to do in her empty nest (oh, who would have thought her nest would be empty after only thirteen years?) and her cooking would not only sustain her creative needs, she was seriously thinking about starting a business. . . A restaurant maybe. . .

" _Maht_?", her son's voice came from the kitchen doorway, "Have you anything for a starving boy to eat before _obed_?"

He was speaking Russian. She frowned. These days, he only did that when he was agitated.

"And what do you know of starving, Andre?" she said, using the nickname only she could use with him, "When I was a child I would have _appreciated_ the _blinchiki_ you will find over there - " she jerked her head in the direction of the stasis unit " - but you, dear boy, will only _eat_ them, and spoil your dinner."

He flashed a grin, briefly, knowing her gruffness was only teasing, but as he reached into the unit, a mask of worry once more came over him.

Mrs. Chekov did not speak as her son took three of the raspberry jam stuffed pastries back to the small kitchen table. They were his favorite, but his countanence had not lifted when he had discovered that, nor did he seem to be enjoying them very much.

" _Maht_?", "Andre?" they both addressed each other at the same time, but Ekateirna motioned for her son to continue.

"Mother," he said, still speaking Russian, "What do you know about poetry?"

Her eyes widened. "Speak Standard, Andre, while we discuss this. . ." she said, somewhat gruffly, but reaching out and mussing his hair - letting him relax back into childhood, even as he was trying to push himself into the adult world, "It will help you focus, lad."

"Mo-there? What do you know ov poetry?"

She "humphed" and crossed her arms, "Very little, but enough, Andre," she narrowed her eyes, "Why?"

"Well. . ." he picked up a _blinchiki_ and mumbled into it, "I _hate_ eet."

Ekateirna Yaroslavovna Chekov laughed heartily at this uncharacteristically sullen statement form her son.

"There are some who would say that Russia _invented_ poetry."

Her son looked shocked, "But. . . you know zat iz not true!"

Ekateirna sat up, "It does not matter if it is true or not, it is what _some_ people think - that there was no poetry, _real_ poetry, until our Ancient Masters took it up."

"Eet still makes no sense," he insisted.

"Perhaps, but _you_ , Andre, already understand poetry. . . you just don't know it yet."

He looked up, not really believing her.

"Oh yes, Pavel Andreievich Chekov, you do. . see here!" she took a tin of peppercorns, and a box of pumpkin seeds from her cupboard, and then proceeded, in slow, unskilled, but very kind and motherly steps to show her son that rhyme and meter were not the basics of mere poetry, but of all things, if you looked at them right. _Flavors_ could rhyme, seeds spread out on a table could have metered patterns, words needed structure in order to have meaning, and a brain behind them in order have purpose. Understand a _person_ , understand his poetry. Understand poetry, understand that person's _life_. . .

Everything could be reduced to numbers, but it was only when the numbers meant _more_ than their inherent value that they could be of any profit.

Poetry _was_ math. . . and science and geography and. . .

"I hev eet!" he shouted, understanding blossoming over his features, "I thank you, _Maht_. . ." he said, breathlessly, and rushed up to his room. No doubt he would be there for several hours, and no doubt he would produce a paper of such blinding brilliance that his mother would be left quite in the dark as to how her simple explanations had led to these insights from her son.

He would also probably miss his dinner.

Mrs. Chekov sighed, picking up the last _blinchiki_ left on his plate and eating it, stolidly.

Perhaps she should call the restaurant "Andre's". . .

* * *

Meaning of Russian words -

 **Blinchiki** \- stuffed snack pastry

 **Maht** \- Mother

 **Obed** \- Dinner

Poem excerpts taken from -

"A Conceit" by Maya Angelou

"Hamlet's Soliloquy: O That This Too Solid Flesh Would Melt: Act 1 Scene 2" by Shakespeare

"Cleopatra" by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin


	6. Okāsan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hikaru Sulu has a duty he never shirks.

**Okaasan**

The streets of San Francisco were a riot of color. People, vehicles, trees, buildings, shops, even several animals out for a walk with their owners, brought a brilliant, brightly colored mix of sensation to the sunny streets.

Hikaru Sulu was a native of this place, and the mixture of color, sound and smell did not disorient him as it might have done others. He walked, unhesitatingly, towards a luxuriously painted gate of what appeared - at first glance - to be a simple side street, but was in fact a portal to another world.

Chinatown.

The colors only increased here, and the sounds of shop owners, street musicians, tourists, and everyday traffic echoed in a unique and colorful way across the walls of the tall buildings. Banners waved, lights flashed, and a million or more tiny things changed about the atmosphere. Hikaru inhaled the essence of the air, always different than it was a mere ten feet outside of the district - his favorite bakery was close by now, and he could always tell when they were making moon cakes.

He exhaled sharply, food was not his destination.

He skirted a wildly fluttering display of kites, and pushed his way through a maze of banners, signs, stalls selling every type of fruit to be found on Earth (including several that sold ones found on other planets), tables full of handmade jewelry, coves full of singing birds, and with a graceful, elbowing, forceful stride, he made his way through the crowd of beings that shopped there.

Turning a corner, the noise and bustle abruptly stopped, though the colors somehow intensified again, and suddenly, he was there. There in the Shrine of the Holy Earth Church. . . to perform his ritual. . .

When the evolution of Terran culture had progressed (finally, some would say) to the point of accepting a single world government, each continent had contributed something to the world scene in tribute to this new advancement of the human mind. The United States of Africa had built and stocked a huge museum devoted to all aspects of Terran history, art and music; The United States of Europe produced several Earthwide sports teams and theatrical organizations; The State of Antarctica had offered up a new, state of the art science station for the express use of the new Federation officials; the State of Australia had donated a similar station and transformed it into a hospital that was relevant Galaxy-wide, and in addition they had collected a comprehensive database of Terran literature and built a library for it. The United States of The Americas had not only begun to build spaceships and fund research into interplanetary travel, but had also built the first school for the study of intergalactic culinary pursuits, accompanied with many exotic gardens devoted to botanical research. Oceania and Micronesia had produced a planetarium of epic proportions along with the most sensitive Earthbound telescope yet created.

As Hikaru stood in the deep, enrobing sunlight of the rock garden shine in Chinatown, he contemplated that, in spite of all these wonders, the United States of Asia had probably made the most far-reaching tribute to the evolution of the human race, though he was sure that few would have admitted it.

They had created a new world religion.

Not that they had abolished any of the old ones, oh no - they had only taken what was best about them all, removed anything violent or coarse, and created a faith that anyone could find something to believe in, and no one would be offended by. This new religion had everything - so many facets and faces and tenets and properties that anyone would be awed by it. It shone, clean and bright, with no taint of anything harsh. Above all, it was a thing of peace, a proponent of beauty, a supporter of all things beneficial.

It was perfect.

No one had noticed.

There had only been a few who had mourned greatly when it did not garner more than a few adherents. Science - for better or worse - was the religion of the day, and the stars, travel among them, and the ships that could do so, had become the gods. Those who joined Starfleet had become the priests, those who provided for Starfleet had become the laymen, and those who opposed Starfleet had become the lost.

Thus the United States of Asia had quietly dedicated all of the new shines to Starfleet, with all members of the Federation welcome, and then proceeded to let the new religion lie dormant, unused, but waiting - just in case anyone ever needed it.

The shines themselves had become places of solitude and tranquility. Mostly they were harmoniously designed gardens in the first place - the failure of the religion that had made them did not make the value of the places any less. Those who wished to meditate could more often than not find complete silence in one of them, and an environment that had been especially designed for promoting clarity to the human mind.

Often, the shines also became graveyards.

Despite Terra having become one world - in the sense that its single government ruled over all citizens, with 98% of that population sharing a uniquely Terran genetic pattern, and thus _genetically_ there was only one native Terran race - still there were many who remembered that Terra had many internal races, and those were loath to forget differences in four or five generations, or even ten or twelve - even within Starfleet.

Humanity might now live on Terra, to be sure, and be united in one government by the people, but there were clans and clannish feelings throughout the populace there, the same as everywhere else in the galaxy.

Because of this, there were many who still wished for autonomy in their death, and more species-names than just "Terran" to be printed beside the facts of their lives.

Into the great shines of the world's new but forgotten religion crept the need for peace beyond the grave, the need for identity _specified_ , not merely _generalized_. The United States of Asia was more than glad to accept this new role, and welcomed any and all who identified with the places, to be buried there - provided that they allowed their bodies to be treated in the new, most efficient and clean method for burial. The one who had died was to be cremated, then the remains were to be subjected to a warp pulse controlled with antigravometric fields. This would subject the mostly carbon-based ash to intense heat and pressure, and when when process was complete, all that would exist would be a raw, smoky colored diamond. These diamonds would then be placed however and wherever the deceased had wished to be buried within the shine.

Hikaru found the large, mostly moss covered stone that held within its crevice a milky white diamond, and contemplated that one perhaps unforeseen side effect of this form of burial was that the dead were thus given a form of immortality, indestructibility, and inherent beauty that had no parallel in any other method. Or ethos, for that matter.

Beneath the diamond were etched the words - in Standard -

"Julie Sulu - Friend, Wife, Mother"

But in his hearing, his father had always called her _Ok_ _āsan_ _._ Hikaru understood why. It was the last thing she had done, and therefore the most important.

Every year since he could walk, he had come here on his birthday. Her deathday. Every year since he could hold a sword he had performed a _kata_ he had created himself, in her honor. In honor of the very last woman at San Francisco Medical to have "Complications From Childbirth" written in the space after "Cause of Death".

For nearly twenty years, no one else had died giving life to a child at that facility. He had come to think of it as an honorable thing.

Well. . . he thought _Ok_ _āsan_ was honorable, at the very least.

He drew his sword - the ceremonial one that was blunt tipped and had an un-honed edge - and he began his personal _kata_.

Body and sword moved in perfect unison, the blade whipping the air and whistling in precise and beautiful motions, exactly in time with the rest of him.

These moves were unlike any that would ever be taught in any school of self defense - they were unlike anything he had been taught himself, unlike everything he used and practiced at all other times.

Unlike. . . and yet like. . . in every way.

If anyone had been there to see, and if that one had had the skill to analyze the movements, he would have been surprised to find that _every_ mode and method of Terran based self defense was represented in the _kata_. From judo, to karate, to jujitsu, to tai chi, to classic English fencing, to ancient broadsword fighting, to Middle Eastern forms of saber-handling, Hikaru had mastered them all, melded them all, and performed his masterpiece once a year, in front of the woman who had found the melding of all world religions to be a good and beneficial thing.

She had believed in the new world religion.

And Hikaru believed in her.

 _Ok_ _āsan_ had become his goddess, and fencing his devotional. He was a priest of Starfleet, worshiping at the shrine of the World.

He finished the _kata_ , and bowed to his mother. For a moment he spoke in her native Korean. "One for all. . . and all for one. . ." he whispered to her.

He sheathed his sword, and suddenly noticed that the sun was very hot. It would soon be time to go. He found himself oddly reluctant to give the moment up. . .

Now that he was near to graduation from the Academy, it meant he would have to give up this ritual. Once he was commissioned, there was no guarantee that he would be able to come back every year. If at all.

He reached out and touched the raw gem that glimmered so softly in the sunlight.

"Goodbye. . ." he said in his father's native Japanese, ". . . Okāsan."

No matter where he went, he would never forget her.

Even though he had never known her.

He looked at the silent, beautiful garden all about him, and he hefted the hilt of his retractable sword in his hand.

Ah, perhaps he _did_ know her, after all. . .

He left, in peace.

* * *

Meaning of Japanese words -

 **Ok** **āsan** \- Mother

 **Kata** \- Form


	7. Ma'am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonard McCoy just wants to enjoy his summer. . . that's all . . . And she keeps getting in the way. . .

**Ma'am**

The day was just about perfect.

A few clouds drifted lazily overhead, the bushes nodded and the trees swayed slowly in the tantalizing breeze. It was hot, but not _too_ hot. It was humid, but not _too_ humid.

So much could be _done_ today.

This morning he had slipped out and gone for a swim before breakfast, then had skipped it altogether after filling up on fruit from random trees he passed on his way back. Then he had spent three hours at the library, huddled in a corner, whispering to the other boys about all the "grown up" books he had already read that summer, and explaining about livers and lungs and kidneys and then asking them to open their mouths, and he would nod and say "Um-hum" like it really meant something. . .

It was enormous fun.

He always refused to answer the. . . _cruder_. . . questions that the other boys inevitably asked, even though he had to admit that he himself had a certain interest in that. . . well. . . _portion of anatomy_. . . but. . . _what_ was all this hubbub about? He would shrug whenever one of them hinted that he might _know_ things about. . . um. . . _girls_. . .

Inwardly, he would shudder. Why would anyone _want_ to know? When the questions got too strange, he would say he had something else to do, and he would leave. . . because it was true.

He had _tons_ to do.

There were books to be read, snacks to be eaten, birds to be watched and caught and examined, worms to dissect, trees to climb, wasp's nests to investigate, plants to pick and grind up into interesting pastes, and then there were games to play and mud to throw at the sides of houses. . .

Then there were baths to be taken, and several long pages of notes to be written meticulously out.

He wondered sometimes how other boys could _stand_ not knowing what they wanted to do with their lives.

For Leonard McCoy, it was easy - play during summer, work during school, then work during medical school, then get paid for being a doctor. Marriage and kids somewhere in there.

That was _all_ he wanted. He was _sure_ of it.

What he wasn't sure of was why he had suddenly settled on this course of action. It _was_ a bit strange for an eleven-year-old to be this sure about his future, wasn't it?

Ah well. Maybe it was because he had seen so much of Drs. Keenal and Pollath this past winter.

Keenal was an Aenar, but he was very well versed in Human biology, and well trusted in the district. Leonard liked him, since he seemed to think that the _most_ important thing for a doctor to carry was a black bag. Always, no matter what he had been called out for, Keenal would have a black leather pouch at his side. Even if he never opened it, he claimed it made people more comfortable with his presence. He was just as incapable as everyone else Leonard had asked of explaining why all doctors _must_ carry bags, or why they must at all cost be _black_ bags, but Keenal was a fine doctor, not at all adverse to making house calls. Which was a good thing, as he had been called upon to make many to the McCoy estate that winter.

Leonard only vaguely wondered why.

Dr. Pollath was a woman of mixed descent and utterly charming manners. Leonard was quite unsure what the other boys meant by the word "crush", but Dr. Midi Pollath quite enchanted him. Everything about her was smooth and brown - her skin like polished wood, her hair like soft new bread, her eyes like amber stones, even her _lips_ were warm pinkish brown. . . like the little mouse he kept in the barn. Sleek and sweet. He was not at all sure if it was her father or her mother that had been human, since he had never cared to ask, but the main representation of her heritage had formed itself into seven very long and flexible fingers on each hand. Fingers that were strong, warm and very gentle. She would often tell him that small and flexible hands were a boon to any doctor. Whenever she did, he would look at his own hands, and wonder if they would always stay as small as they were now. She loved to tell him stories of Tahiti, Guam, Tasmania, Zanzibar and Madagascar - and other exotic places where she had grown up, and all the wonderful things medicine had done for these places.

He was always disappointed when she ordered him from his mother's bedroom, saying that it was time for her "girl checkup", and he must not interrupt. He would go, and a half an hour later, Dr. Pollath would leave, quietly, out the back door, so as to not interrupt everyone else's after-dinner conversation.

He almost never wondered why Mother did not come down to dinner anymore.

Arabella McCoy had nearly always been absent from her son's thinking processes. Certainly he had never thought to tell her all his dreams and plans. She cared deeply when he did not bring home a good conduct report from school, and she _insisted_ he be taught how to dance, but other than this she remained aloof, superior, a kind of present yet unattainable goal of perfection that Leonard had always found vaguely disconcerting.

He shrugged. It was a common enough feeling, he supposed. This afternoon was not going to be _wholly_ used up in deep, dark brooding. He had things to _do_.

On the edge of the huge front lawn of the McCoy estate, there was a singular elm tree. Three branches up, there was a huge knothole that the branch totally concealed from any angle save straight on. It was where he kept his most treasured objects. Stealthily, he climbed up, and from the knothole removed a large, sealed, tin box. Tucking it securely under one arm, he climbed back down, and settled himself comfortably at the roots of his favorite tree. Then. . . he opened the box. . .

There was nothing very spectacular inside. . . only a boy's usual collection of oddities - but there was one thing in it which would have caught the eye, even if the box had contained a cache of rare and ancient treasures.

It was a book. A real one. With paper and ink and leather binding.

Leonard lifted it carefully out of the box, and opening it, began to read with rapt attention. This was his favorite summer pastime. Reading while breathing in the soft, sweet breeze, and having the scent and texture of a _real_ book in his hands. Not to mention that the story was enthralling. . .

"Leonard!"

He looked up, suddenly startled out of his story-induced haze. For a second, he felt very odd. . . disoriented, worried, and vaguely angry. . . .

"Leonard!"

The voice was coming from the house. He swiftly pushed the book back into the box, and closed the lid, hastily running the several dozen meters back to his house.

"LEONARD!" came his mother's voice again, "Get up here!"

She was calling from her balcony. He wondered what was so important that she would call him like this in the middle of the day. A few long seconds of navigating the corridors brought him to her door.

Her door. . .

Of the room she had not left for seven months now. . .

All of a sudden Leonard had a strange sense of foreboding.

He knocked and she answered, opening the door dressed in her heavy brocade dressing gown.

"Ah, there you are Leo, darling," she purred in her matriarchal way, "I need your help with something. . ."

He entered the room, only vaguely noticing that the thick velvet drapes were actually slightly open, admitting more air and light than his mother had allowed for many weeks.

"What do you need, Ma'am?" he asked, politely.

It turned out she needed several things - her sheets changed, and her pillows turned, a new pitcher of water - chilled, _not_ iced - and her medicine mixed. She asked for a light luncheon to be sent up - warm broth and dry toast - real, _not_ replicated, and she asked him to personally deliver several small notes she had written to the household staff.

Leonard stood for a few seconds, somewhat bewildered, and wondered where Mezzita, mother's companion and lady's maid, had gone. But the next twenty minutes did not yield any answers, though they did give him a chance to practice a rather obscure tecnique he had only just recently read about. He supposed it took many years to cultivate a "bedside manner", though he doubted highly that many doctors would be crawling on the floor to look for errant spiders just so they could make their patients feel better.

At last, she was satisfied, and he hied himself away with right good will.

He had just reached his tree again when he heard the call - higher and with more hysteria this time.

"LEEEONARD!"

He sighed, because he _knew_ that screech. It took him a quarter of an hour to catch the mouse and release it in the back garden.

He returned to his elm, and his book, and was just reaching a place in the story he particularly loved when -

"LEOOOONARD!"

He slammed the book down on the grass, and went to administer a hypo, fetch a cold compress, and adjust the second from the left window shade by one eighth of an inch. Precisely.

This time he walked slowly back to his tree, and did not dare look at his book. Quite honestly, he was waiting for it.

"Leonarrrrrrrrd!"

Ah. There it was.

Three more times he tested this theory, and it seemed it was true - all he had to do was LOOK at his book and she would call.

If this was what being a doctor would be like. . . .

At last, he settled back into a lazy sprawl against the cool tree trunk, wondering if there was any boy in the whole history of the South who had been so hen-pecked for no reason at all. For a second he cursed the atmospheric satellites that regulated the weather so well. What he wouldn't give right now for a _hot_ day, swampy and miserable. It wouldn't be comfortable, but it would be _real_. . .

What the _hell_ was wrong today?

Sighing, he leaned back against the tree again, and grasped his book, just about to dive back into the safety of the story. . .

"Leonard!"

This time he _was_ mad, and thwarted, and forget bedside manners, he was going to tell her that.

"Leonard, where are the grey kittens. . ."

"MA'AM!" he shouted, "I MAY BE YOUR SON, BUT _DAMN_ IF I KNOW!"

Her eyes widened and all of a sudden her lethargy was gone. She leapt, _leapt_ from her bed and grabbed his ear, twisting hard. She threw him over the side of the bed, with all her strength and all her outraged dignity told him that a gentleman, a _gentleman_ , mind you! - never - NEVER - swore at a lady, and was he in for a hiding he'd never forget. . .

He closed his eyes, already punished enough by her wrath, but dertermined to quietly take whatever she would mete out.

"Imagine what your father would say! His only son. . . . . "

He braced himself for the blow. . . that never fell.

There was a rustle and a strange choking sound, and he turned to see her. . . crying? Mother was crying?

She was. Slumped in her chair, and wringing her hands, for no reason he could devine she was _crying_. He stood, and stared. He did not understand. It was like opening the kitchen door, expecting to see a table with a plate of toast, but actually seeing Vulcans mating. . .

It was _impossible_. . .

It was. . . shocking. . .

She was still crying.

"Ma'am?" he managed no more than a whisper.

"I. . . I'm sorry Leonard. . ."

"Sorry. . . for what?"

"That. . . " she managed a long, deep breath, "That you. . . you will never know what it means. . . to have a brother. . ."

He stood, bewildered, but thinking, trying to understand.

After a few minutes, he thought _maybe_ the past few months _finally_ made a little sense. He reached out a hand and touched her shoulder, gently. "Well now, don't cry about that, Ma'am, please don't. You never know, do you?"

She smiled, at last. A sad, soft smile he had never seen before, but it was still a smile. "True, Leo dear. . . you never _do_ know. . . you never do. . ."

"Is. . . is there anything I can do, Ma'am?" he faltered, trying to be polite and still make his wishes known, "Anything that would occupy you, and not. . . drive me crazy. . . please?"

She smiled again, broadly, and stood, shuffling her way back to bed. He lifted the covers snugly around her before she replied.

"Well now, how about you read me a bit of that book you're holding," she gestured at his treasure, still clutched in one hand, "It might take me out of myself for a spell."

"Yes, Ma'am." He smiled. This was perfect.

He opened the book to the title page, and began reading aloud. . . "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Chapter One. . . . . . . ."

After nearly half an hour, he looked over and saw her, sleeping peacfully. He liked the way her breath came evenly, and her face seemed without pain.

Sure. . . he could do this.

The medical profession was looking better all the time. . .


End file.
